


Colors of the Sunset

by winter_scldier



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Depression, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-15 14:12:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8059381
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_scldier/pseuds/winter_scldier
Summary: "I used to sing him a song every night until his tears stopped, and he drifted off into a restless sleep. I can't stand to see the scars, the blood. They remind me of the colors of a sunset."





	1. Crimson Sky

I remember the first night it all started. It was in the middle of the night, and I went into the kitchen to get a light snack before going back to bed. As I passed the bathroom, I heard a quiet sob coming from within. I knocked on the door, and when there was no response, I came in. I remember seeing him lying on the floor, a bloodied razor on the clean white tile next to him, and fresh cuts lining his arm, matching the healing scars. There was an empty pill bottle on the counter, and then it hit me.

I tried shaking his unresponsive body back to life, tears of anxiety flowing down my cheeks. I stand up and run to the kitchen to grab the phone, only then noticing the wrinkled paper on the counter. I remember picking up the paper and returning to his side and waiting for help to arrive. The words held so much sorrow and grief. There was so much pain inside him, and I could only wonder why he didn't talk to me about it. 

His heart stopped in the ambulance. I remember them still administrating CPR as they rolled the stretcher inside the building. Nurses had to stop me from following as they restarted it, but they didn't know if he would wake up. I remember the doctor asking me if he had any family. When I said no, he told me that because I was the closest person to him, I had to make the decision if he stayed on life support or not.

He stayed unconscious in the hospital for another week until he finally woke up. He was mad at first. He asked why I didn't just let him die, and why I thought his life was worth anything. Then he started crying. He confessed about the self harm, and said that he had been doing it for months. He thought it would help him forget the pain of his past. He thought if he could focus on something other than his awful memories, then he would be okay. He admitted to me that he was wrong.

I took him home, and the first thing I did was get him a councilor. He complained, he said he would be alright without one, but when he left the office crying I knew I was right. He had severe PTSD and clinical depression according to the doctors who treated him, and suddenly my role in his life became much more than just his friend. I thought things would get better for him if I was there, but it didn't He would wake up in the middle of the night, screaming and sobbing. He would call for his parents, even though they were long dead. Then he would cry for me. 

I remember coming into his room and singing to him until the tears stopped, and he drifted off into a restless sleep. I hated to see the scars and the blood.They reminded me of the colors of a sunset. I wondered what happened in his past, what they did to him all those years ago, that was putting him through so much pain. But I couldn't ask him. I couldn't send him any further down on the downward spiral. But it was hard to sit with him, sometimes for hours, until he stopped crying. I had to lock away all of our medications if we weren't taking them, and I had to be with him when he took his antidepressants. 

I made him promise to tell me when he felt like cutting again, so I could bind his arm with a thick bandage until the feeling subsided. I would stay with him, and if even that wasn't enough, I would give him my arm and tell him that whatever he did to himself, he had to do to me. He would usually put the blade down after that. There were times he'd fall asleep in my arms, asking me why I thought he was worth saving. I would tell him the truth. That I loved him, and couldn't lose him again. Then I would sing until he fell asleep.


	2. Dreams of Softer Colors

There came a time where even my songs didn't comfort him. I would lie with him, wrapped in my arms as he cried. Sometimes for hours, sometimes he would never fall asleep. But even when I was at my worst, and I could hardly keep my eyes open, I would cradle him in my arms and tell him everything would be alright. He would lay there and clutch my arms so I wouldn't leave. I would never let him see my tears.

There were days when he even refused to get out of bed. I would bring him food or his meds, and sometimes I had to practically force them down his throat. He would tell me he wanted to starve, that he deserved to feel the pain of his sins as he died. I would try to be gentle, but I would threaten him by telling him we were going to the hospital to get help. He would do what he needed to after that.

The days I had to take him to the councilor were the worst. He would beg me not to take him, that he could handle it on his own. I would hold his hand as we walked in the office, and I watched his shoulders slump as he walked away with her. He would come out about an hour later, new tears combining with the dry ones that already stained his cheeks. The councilor would sometimes wave me over, and tell me that she was genuinely concerned. Other times she would just give me a frightened look before leading in another patient. He wouldn't even look at me the entire way home.

I remember going into his room to bring him his meds one day. He was staring, eyes glossed over, at his arm. There was fresh, crimson blood drops on the clean white sheets. They were deeper cuts than before, and I watched the color drained from his face. I ran to his side and grabbed some gauze from the drawer and took the razor blade from his hand. All he did was blink as I hastily wrapped a thick layer around his forearm. I felt his pulse, only to find it much slower than normal. His eyes were glossy, and he didn't even look alive. And despite the many months I had trained myself not to, I cried. 

I couldn't let him see that I was suffering. I had to be his rock, the person he could rely on to always be there to comfort him when no one else would. I couldn't leave him alone in his most vulnerable moment. 

There was a day when things got even worse than before. He had locked himself in the bathroom before I could follow. I heard him break the cabinet where I kept the medications, and I had to break the door down. I had to push him to the floor as he was about to swallow the entire bottle of his antidepressant. I wrestled with him for what felt like forever until he finally relaxed. As tears splattered on the floor beneath him, he told me that nothing worked. That however many times he went to therapy, or however many pills he took, he wouldn't get any better. His thoughts would never subside. That his actions would haunt him until he was finally dead. 

He agreed to go to the hospital with me to make sure he wouldn't overdose on the pills he already swallowed. The doctor that saved his life the first time pulled me aside, and the look of pure disappointment and sadness he gave me when I told him almost broke me. I told him everything. From the councilor telling me how concerned she was, to finding him with fresh cuts and glassy eyes. All he could do was tell me to stay with him.And that eventually it would get better.

I went and joined him in the cold room they placed him in. His eyes had lost their youth, and their color drained. I struggled to remember a simpler time, when both of us had that childish spirit about us. I remember being completely caught off guard when he told me he was sorry our lives ended up like this. He said that it was all his fault, and he didn't know how I'd ever forgive him. I remember bending down and kissing him, and telling him that I loved him. That it was all in the past, and it would all be okay. 

He gave me a small smile. It was the happiest I'd seen him in the longest time, and I remember feeling a weight being lifted off my shoulders. I thought he would get better. I thought for just a split second, our life would go back to the way it used to be. And I smiled back. And then he started singing.


	3. Fallen Leaves In Autumn

Things were going so great for awhile. He started to get back on his feet, and get into some hobbies.The two of us started going to the gym, and we even started to regain the muscle we lost in the moments of weakness. We took special care not to talk about the times that had passed. I no longer had to run to his side in the middle of the night to stop his tears, and he no longer had to rely on me to hold him close.

But even that couldn't last forever. We had taken the long way home from the gym, and to this day I regret it. As we walked, there was an explosion. It couldn't have been more than a few blocks away. I remember feeling the heat brush against me as the ground shook. But I vividly remember watching him fall to his knees, clutching his ears, screaming.I wrapped my arms around him as dust clouded around us. He collapsed in a heap on the ground, and I had to drag him into an alley to avoid being trampled. 

His hair and face were covered with the powdered dust of the building, and eventually his screams were drowned out by the sirens of the firetrucks, and people fleeing the scene. I remember trying to ask if he was hurt, if he needed a doctor. But he wouldn't stop screaming. I picked him up, and he buried his face in my chest. We got to a quiet area, and he had stopped screaming. I asked him if he could walk, and he just said he didn't know. He said he felt weak, that he might fall if I put him down. I realize now he needed someone to be there, to make sure he would be okay. It was only after we got home that I realized things were going back to the way they had always been.

He wouldn't eat, he had no motivation. I would catch him rolling up his sleeve and just staring at the healing scars. His eyes would glass over, and out of sheer habit I would race over and check his pulse. Most of the time he wouldn't react. He would just look over at me as the color would return to him. But every now and then he would lash out at me. He would try to shove me off the bed, screaming for me to get away. Then he would realize I wasn't there to hurt him, and he would apologize. He would say he never meant to cause any harm. I would gently rest my hand on his shoulder and tell him it was going to be alright, that I forgave him.

He would sometimes go into a mindless sate, where he would start shaking and muttering something in a different language. He would tell me after the spells that he knew I was there, and that I wouldn't hurt him, but he couldn't remember anything else. I would explain that he acted like he was absolutely terrified. That he would break out in a cold sweat and jump back if you tried to touch him. But he would never touch you back. He later told me that that's how things worked at the base he was held at. You didn't touch, ad you didn't speak.

I found him holding a fresh razor, and his sleeve rolled up. He looked blank. Like he was waiting for something, a reason for him to stop. I sighed before wrapping his arm again, telling him that he needed to take his mind off of it. He didn't respond, but he quietly put the razor down on the table. He looked over at the clock, which read eleven forty-seven. I remember him looking at me, as he tried to smile. He asked me to sing to him.

It caught me off guard. I hadn't sung him in months. That's when I knew for certain that those past few happy months was just the calm before the storm. But I gave him a small nod, and he leaned his head against my shoulder. We sat like that until almost two, and he told me that we both needed to get some sleep. He asked if I would stay with him during the night. I finally fell into a restless night, directly beside him. He was relaxed, and it was his steady breathing that lulled me to sleep. I just couldn't get my mind off of the fact that I actually thought things would get better.


	4. White Snow Tainted Red

It had gone so well. I knew that after the explosion things would never go back to normal. I mean, how could they? But I never thought that I would have to watch my best friend die all over again.

It was two days before Christmas. He told me he wanted to go for a walk. I remember being surprised, and readily agreed. He hadn't left the house in weeks. He was thin, pale, and overall just looked dead. As we walked down the sidewalk on that snowy Wednesday, I remember him acting strange. He wouldn't look at me, and when he did his eyes threatened to release the tears he was holding back. I thought it was just his PTSD, but I was so wrong. So, so wrong. 

We stopped to rest at a small cafe at eleven thirty. I remember the last look he gave me, and it haunts me to this day. He took my hand, a his lips shook as he smiled at me, and tears poured from his eyes. 

"I love you Steve...I'm so sorry..."

He pulled a nine millimeter pistol from his pocket, and shot himself in the the side of the head. 

I remember just sitting there, across from his dead body, as everyone screamed. I remember not being able to process anything for what felt like eternity, but I remember jumping back and falling in my chair. The yellow wall of the cafe was stained with the blood and brains of my best friend, and I just sat there and watched it all happen. I walked over to him, tears streaming down my cheeks, and I closed his lifeless eyes. His face was stained with blood.

I ran outside, unable to control myself any longer. I pushed through the crowd of people standing outside until I tripped and collapsed into the snow. I screamed, I sobbed, and all people could do was stare. I wanted to yell at them, tell them to help me. But now I understand that they couldn't. It was just like a train-wreck. They couldn't look away. 

I remember hearing the sirens of both ambulances and police, but I still was lying face down in the snow. I remember some paramedics picking me up and wrapping me in some sort of blanket. I didn't have the energy to fight them as they looked me over and asked if I was alright. But I stopped paying attention to them when I saw them wheeling a body bag on a stretcher towards a hearse. That's when I broke down. I tried to run after them, tell them my best friend was in there, and that they couldn't take him away yet. I begged the paramedics to let me go, that I had things I needed to tell him. I can't remember if they were holding me down with all their might, or I was just to weak to stand.

I remember having to plan his funeral, because I was his only family. I remember having to greet our friends from the gym, and watching them finally realize why we stopped coming. My friends came to comfort me, but in the end the only person I wanted was him. I was so angry at myself for taking the times I held him in my arms for granted. I was so angry that he didn't try to get anymore help. I was so angry that he shot himself in the head. 

I remember quickly following in his steps. I took his antidepressants, I tried to keep in touch with people, but it didn't work. I remember finally getting over my anger as I began to understand that it wasn't easy to get happy again. 

I know I could've tried harder. I could've seen a therapist longer, or done more things that used to make me happy, but it all got to be too much. I wouldn't eat for days until I would nearly starve. I would look at pictures at the two of us, and wonder how many of his smiles were fake. How many times he put on a mask to make me think that he was doing alright. And how many times I believed it. 

I'm tired of being strong for people. I'm tired of lying alone in bed, wanting it to get better when I know it never will. So now I sit on the bathroom floor, right where i found him that first day. I have his favorite picture of us in my hand, and a bottle full of pills on the counter. I know people will miss me, but not like I miss him. I'm just too weak, and too alone. Nothing I do makes me happy anymore. So to the person who finds this, who finds me. You know why I did it, but I'm sorry this is how you had to find me.

I love you Buck...I'll see you soon...

 

-Steve Rogers


End file.
